


Believe!!

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [54]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:25:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: She'd heard it before, once or twice from Colonel (then General) Robert Hogan, several times from skeptical family friend Major Kevin Richards, as well as various others.  "You have to face reality."  "You have to stop kidding yourself."  "Wake up, Caeide, stop dreaming!"  "You're being a fool, wasting your life on a childish fantasy."  Well, she'd faced them down, each and every one of the gainsayers; stood firm against all their doubts and scoffing and warnings.  Now - Had they been right all along?  Had she just been living a dream, her fantasy of what she wanted life to be?  She looked around and had to wonder.   Just what was real, what wasn't - somehow, reality no longer seemed such a solid, immutable thing.





	Believe!!

The sky had had an odd tinge to it the past day or so, with a bitter taste in the wind, and clouds shadowing the moon. Or maybe it just seemed that way to her; she hadn't felt well for the past day or so, not as well as she should, anyway. She'd put it down to the beginnings of a cold, perhaps, though it didn't feel quite like that; of course, she hadn't had a cold in several years, so perhaps she'd just forgotten. She worked through it because, well, it was what you did; there was work enough for everyone without her slacking her part and causing more for the others just because she was a bit 'off'. Still, when the day was done, she was more than happy to say goodnight, telling them she was turning in early. She opened her windows, then took a whiff of the night air, wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell and closed them again. She settled down, hoping she'd feel much more the thing in the morning. Peter and Andrew looked at each other in some concern; but left her alone, thinking a good night's sleep would probably bring her round. 

She slept fitfully, tossing on that comfortable bed as if it were a bed of stones and briars; she woke in sudden starts, thinking she heard someone or something, but then would drift off again before she could identify who or what that might be. Finally, she drifted into a deep, if troubled sleep.

Morning came and she blinked in the darkness, wondering why she'd drawn the curtains last night, keeping out the first hints of dawning. There were no neighbors to overlook them, so she rarely did that, only when storms were so fierce as to have the lightning disturb their sleep. She was alone, and she felt the lack of their presence, and now regretted going off by herself last night; she relished waking up between the two of them, her loves.

She looked around in confusion, seeing not her bedroom, but the small bedroom at the old homestead; feeling beneath her not the soft woolen mattress, but the straw one she'd slept on as a child. She rose, wondering why she'd come here, how she had done so without remembering. Quickly dressing, she made to hurry back to the house, knowing the others would be wondering about her. While she was known to wander some at night, when the moon called her or when the wind seemed to beckon irresistably, she knew it worried the others.

Walking quickly down the path, which seemed oddly overgrown, she reached the hill where she could look down on Haven, her dream, her accomplishment; well, hers, Maeve before her, and all the others who came before. THEIR dream. The safe place her Ashtore, her most beloved ones lived. As she cleared the rise, she came to a sudden stop, shock and disbelief freezing her, gripping her heart.

It was gone! The big house, the outbuildings, the pastures with the herd of chestnut horses, the flocks of golden sheep - all gone! She collapsed onto the dried winter grass, {"and when did it become winter? It was spring, early spring when I went to bed; it was!"}

When she came to her senses, she fearfully looked again, only to see what she had seen before. Bare fields, frozen meadows, and an old orchard, gnarled branches twisted by the wind and salt spray. She looked toward the SunStone; it was still there, and it was in that direction she hurried now, needing to touch something that made sense. She slowed as she approached; the bier, which was always kept heaped with branches, was bare and windscoured. The stone lanterns, always kept ready for the lighting, were turned over, one shattered; any oil had long since dissipated. She stood in the arch, looking down, seeing a beach so eroded the waves pounded against the cliffs themselves. And in her despair, she cried aloud, "where are they, my loves? Where have they gone? What has happened here?" 

In the mist in front of her, a figure formed, a tall man of handsome but haughty visage.

"Who are you?" she whispered, knowing all too well the dangers of dealing with strangers.

"You may have the answer to that, or you may have the answer to your other questions, the ones you just asked. Which will it be?"

And in spite of her distrust, her need for answers about Peter, Andrew, all of those she loved who dwelt in that big house overrode that distrust, and she replied, "the rest, tell me, please."

And the figure nodded, "very well. The simple answer is, of course, "nowhere" and perhaps even more, "nothing."

"I don't understand," she cried out in frustration.

And the figure, now shifting into that of a man with the head of an eagle, "you have dreamed, and your dreams came to naught. You dreamed, and you sought to form your own reality from your dreams. Sit, sit and learn what you have been so foolish as to do. You set aside life, to yearn after what was not alive, what you could not have. Now, you awaken and must pay the price for your dreams."

And the man, he with the head of an eagle, told her, related to her a life so different than what she remembered.

"Where to start, where to start - so many places, so much that happened, so much you refused to accept, so much you denied."

"Peter," she whispered, "Peter and Andrew and . . ."

"The two men, they never came to Haven; they never returned from that great war you mortals had. Their deaths were . . . prolonged and quite painful. The children? Obviously, they never existed; well, how could they have? The women, the two you imagined you had brought here? They died in the bombing that enveloped their home. Reverend Miles? He was stoned to death soon after his arrival when the villagers learned of his perverted leanings and his alliance with Haven in betrayal of his church's teachings. If you had ventured further down the path, you would have seen the remains of the village; just the remains, the village itself is long gone. It could not survive without the help of Haven, and Haven could no longer survive without you caring for it. And you let yourself drift so far into your dreams, you could no longer care for it, could no longer care even for yourself."

She gulped, "but the Clan. They would not have let it fallen this way; they would have sent someone."

"The Clan has gone."

And if there was any color left in her face, it disappeared at that statement.

"I know not where they went to; at the end of the great war, when that one had conquered all of what you called the civilized world, your Clan had no place, and they departed. They urged you to go with them, but you were too entrenched in your fantasies to listen, and they would not force you."

Now the figure shifted once again, now a huge eagle but with the head of a serpent, "look at yourself, see yourself as you truly are," and held up a shield polished so brightly as to reflect her face, her body, and she stiffened in shock at the stringy white hair, draping almost to her feet, her old and gnarled form clad in rags.

"It was a dream only?" she whispered, remembering all the love and joy and learning and giving, the dangers, and challenges and triumphs and all else from those years.

"A dream, an illusion. Isn't it time, Caeide? Time to end the illusion, time to accept, time to just let it all die, and perhaps, you along with it. Perhaps it is time for that," and the voice was not unkind, for all there was little softness to it.

And she sat, and thought of what she had heard, and looked down to the sea beating against the cliffs, and the figure nodded, agreeing with her thoughts of how easy it would be, just to stand, just to step forward those few steps. And she stood, and lifted her head to the sky.

One last question she had, "the Old Ones?"

The figure seemed to stiffen at that, and cast a look toward the valley in the distance. For awhile she though there would be no answer, and then, in a soft voice, as if not wanting to speak these words too loudly, "with no one left to believe, except for one old woman too mad to realize she was mad, they had little to hold them, and when you awoke this day to the realization of the truth, there was nothing to anchor them; they too departed, I know not where, or maybe they just ceased to be." 

And the words came back to her, all of them, and other words came to her as well, words spoken to her by those she loved and cared for, by those she respected. And, after a considerable time of careful thought, a small smile came to her face, and it came to have a certain serenity about it.

"If my believing in the Old Ones allowed them to stay, then I will continue to believe, and they will know they are free to return. If all of this formed from my belief, then will I continue to believe. If believing allowed Peter and Andrew to have a life together, allowed our children to be born, allowed Maude and Marisol a safe place, allowed our Reverend Miles his place in our family, then I will continue to believe. Believe in the Clan, in the Old Ones, in Peter and Andrew and Maude and Marisol and our children and Reverend Miles. Rather I dwell apart, like this, in solitude than to stray from that belief, so that they may continue their lives together; for they DO have their lives, though perhaps not now, not here, with me. I will believe. I DO believe. Therefore, I do not accept your words, your temptations. Be on your way; you are not welcome here; begone!"

And at her words, there came a great laughter from that far valley, the valley where the Old Ones had dwelt for so long.

"YES, PHOBETOR! BEGONE! YOU AND YOUR LIES ARE NOT WELCOME HERE, WILL NOT BE TOLERATED HERE!" and with a shriek of fury the eagle with the head of a serpent spread its giant wings and flew off into the sun. She stood tall, watching it as it disappeared into the bright light. Looking down, she was clad in the thin robe she'd gathered around her, no longer the tattered rags she'd seen previously. She pulled her long hair in front of her eyes, to see it once again dark red, and her hands, while work worn and calloused, were not the hands of the crone she'd appeared to be just minutes before.

She looked toward the valley, smiled and said in a very sincere voice, "thank you."

And those voices came again, "are you not going to ask whether he was right or wrong?"

She asked instead, "are my loves, my Ashtore, again waiting for me?" and the answer brought a smile to her face.

"Then I don't really care whether it was right or wrong, whether this is illusion or reality. As long as I have them with me, can see them, hold them, care for them, know them to be safe and together, whether it be dream or not, is of little importance. If believing they are real makes it so, then YES they are real. If it is truly an illusion, then will I cling to that illusion for as long as I am given breath to do so; I will cling to it and BELIEVE in it until my belief makes it real. 'I think, therefore, I am'. I BELIEVE, therefore they are, as well."

And the great voices chuckled at her, "Descartes, Rene Descartes. Not a bad corollary, actually. Go home, Caeide, go home to your Ashtore. And, thank you as well, for believing in US."

She turned, passing the bier, heaped with branches, faced with the two stone lanterns filled with sweet oil. The fresh spring grass under her feet was wet with the dew, and when she topped the rise, there Haven spread itself before her - large sturdy building, flanked by outbuildings. Chestnut horses running in the pastures, sheep grazing in others, fields rich and ready for planting. As she got closer, she started walking faster til she was running.

She reached that kitchen door, and walked into organized confusion, the four adults figuring out who was stay and watch the babes and who would join in the search. They turned to see her, dressed only in a thin robe, feet bare and damp and stained with grass, hair flowing to her waist, and a look of unimaginable joy in her eyes.

"Hello, loves, I'm home," and they gathered her to them, their arms strong and warm around her, and in answer to their anxious questions, she said, "pour me some coffee, if you will, and sit, for I have a tale to tell you, a tale of belief and lies, of eagles and serpents." And she told her tale, and their loving hands stroked her head, held her hands, reassuring her of their reality.

And her two lads, Peter and Andrew, they drew her up those wide wooden stairs, to reassure her in their own way. And reassure her, they did, and when she awoke again, with them nestled to each side of her, she smiled in triumph, {"eagles and serpents - deceivers, both of them, start to finish; I've never done well with either, come to think; no reason for that to change, I suppose. The thing is, not to let them win!"}

**Author's Note:**

> While Phobetor had a reluctant liking for Meghada, (Garrison's Gorillas string, 'Phobetor'), he really could be a nasty bastard at times, and he proves it here with Meghada's older sister Caeide. Still, while she is Wolf, not Dragon, she's no weakling, as he soon discovers, and having powerful friends doesn't hurt either.


End file.
